To Fight the Darkness Within
by Winter Moonglade
Summary: Ginny Weasley has just finished her 7th year in Hogwarts when the arrival of a mysterious letter convinces her parents to send her to a church in France. She soon gets caught up in a series of events however... and they all are connected to Draco Malfoy.


**Disclaimer:**  The characters and settings of this story do not belong to me, I'm sorry to say; only the plot does.  But I wouldn't mind at all if JK Rowling decided to give me a Draco Malfoy of my own…

_This chapter is dedicated to both SilverFangs and ScarletFairie, without whom this story would never have been placed here before you._

**_To Fight the Darkness Within_**

**Chapter One: The Wakening**

Genevieve deTorcy rested her chin in the cupped palm of her hand, her brown eyes thoughtful as she looked out the window.  Dunkirk, France was lovely around this time of year, and this year was no exception.  Tonight, the stars were like tiny slivers of glass that flashed in the black skies, and the ocean lapped gently against the white sands of the shoreline.  She smiled a little at the view.  Maybe she could convince Charles to leave that dreary research of his and come for a walk with her.  Had she known that the stars were so much more visible here, she would have insisted that they set up their main residence here, rather than in London or Paris.  As it was, she might still insist that they settle here; there was a quiet serenity about the place that was most restful…

"Rubbish, total rubbish," Charles muttered, disturbing her thoughts.  "Where do they come up with such utter nonsense?  Never have I seen such a huge pack of lies…  It's just wrong, all wrong…"  He raked fingers through his already tousled dark hair as he flipped through pages, the rustling of paper disturbing the silence.

"Something wrong, Charlie?" Genevieve asked, getting up from her position on the sofa to come and put her arms around her husband's shoulders.  Her long, silky blonde hair fell about him in a white-gold curtain, and her lips were soft as she kissed his forehead.

"I just don't understand it, Gen," he told her, pulling her onto his lap and tucking her head underneath his chin.  She snuggled closer to him, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat as he talked.  "You remember that sword I got the other day?"

She pulled away from him slightly so she could see him better.  "Are you talking about that huge broadsword that old man brought you last… was it Thursday?" she asked curiously, her index finger tracing his profile.  He pulled away from her touch, and she had to resist a laugh.  "Yes, Thursday," she said more seriously now.  "The one with all the runes etched in red along the blade?"

"Yes, that's the one.  I've been trying to gather _real_ information on it for the Ministry—you know, from what century the sword is from, where it was discovered, who discovered it—and all I can find is superstitious rubbish!"  Charles turned away from her and reached for his notes before thrusting them into her surprised hands.  Interested despite herself, Genevieve started to leaf through the sheets of paper.  Each page was covered in his hasty, sprawling script, the monotony broken only by the occasional sketch of the sword.  Sometimes, it was a picture of the entire broadsword from different angles; other times, it was just a glimpse of the hilt alone.  Each sketch, however, was carefully numbered, with little side-notes written underneath.  He had even duplicated the runes—they marched up and down along the margins, and the many different interpretations of them were recorded in cramped, rushed scrawl.

"… Just look at it, Gen," he was telling her now, taking a sip of brandy.  "You wouldn't believe all the tales those nutters have come up with—some of those… books, for want of a better word, say it was the sword Gabriel used to defend the Garden of Eden; others say that it was used by Julius Caesar when he went on his conquests.  Some even claim that the sword is none other than Excalibur, come to England in its time of need!  Honestly, Gen, I'm up to my wits end, how can they expect me to work with people like them and remain sane?  Sticks waving around, things popping in and out, all sorts of bizarre animals, talk of Dark Lords walking around…"

Genevieve smoothed the dark hair back from his forehead and made soothing noises.  "I'm sorry, Charlie," she whispered.  "But it's only for a little while, love.  And it's not like you're in contact with them every day, right?  I mean, I know they're all freaks and all, but—"

"Well, well, well," said another voice from behind them.  It was a slow, cultured drawl that spoke of arrogance, breeding, and class.  "The freaks are calling us freaks.  How touching.  How amusing.  How simply _delightful_."

Startled by the presence of another, the couple stood up and whirled around to face the intruder.  What they saw, however, shocked their delicate Muggle sensibilities even further.  Standing in front of the entryway was a tall figure robed in black velvet.  Eyes that glinted silvery-grey were barely visible under heavy cowl, and a thin stick approximately thirty-five centimetres long tapped against the palm of its gloved hand.  "Mr. deTorcy, I must congratulate you," the figure said, making its way towards the pair.  Behind it, three more figures appeared, each dressed in the same manner as the first.  "Your stupidity and lack of decent powers of reasoning is truly amazing, not to mention most… amusing, for lack of a better word."

"Who are you?  What are you doing here?  I'll have you know that I'm an important Ministry official—all I have to do is press one button and the police will be here straight away—"

"Do you see what I mean by stupid?" said the figure with an air of complete indifference, turning to face its other companions.  The other three cowled heads duly nodded.  "Why, he's slower than either Crabbe or Goyle.  He seems to think that the—what is that Muggle word again?—_police_ will be able to do something to help him.  He just doesn't seem to understand that this pathetic… erm… _tekhnolicy_… won't do a bit of good against magic.  And wasn't this the Muggle who was working along with the Ministry of Magic?"  The figure seemed to sneer as it turned towards Charles and his wife.  "How little they understand.  Press all the buttons you want, deTorcy.  It won't save your filthy Mudblood hide from the cleansing it deserves."

Genevieve turned frightened eyes towards Charles.  "Charlie… damn you, press the bloody button!" 

"I'm pressing!" he hissed, his finger jamming frantically against a corner of his desk.  The hooded figures closed around them slowly, inexorably, and he looked up at them with hazel eyes full of desperation.  "Fucking damn alarms… they're not working, Gen!"

The figure seemed to smile underneath his cowl.  Feeling the sheer hopelessness and desperation that only comes during the last moments of life, Charles whirled away from his wife and dove under the table, ignoring Genevieve's cries of _Charlie!_ as he gripped the handle of the sword and yanked himself back upright.  He didn't know how to use the damn thing, but that didn't matter, it was something sharp, it would help, wouldn't it?  "I'm warning you," he said hoarsely, brandishing the broadsword as he pushed Genevieve behind him, "come any closer and I'll stick this right through your damn hearts."

Now the figures _did_ laugh.  "Oh, don't worry, deTorcy," the first figure told him softly.  "We'll stay far away from you.  As amusing as it would be to see Nott with a huge sword sticking through his gut, I really don't want to make this a disaster area."  The first figure paused and took what seemed to be a considering look about the room, its gaze finally resting on the blade in Charles' hands.  Seeing this, Genevieve and Charles eyed the black-robed figures warily.  "Well," the figure amended, looking up at the Muggle couple.  A lazy smile surfaced from underneath the hood.  "Not _too _much of a disaster area, at least."

"What do you want?" Charles demanded, his hands shaking as he tightened his grip on the sword.

"What I've always wanted, deTorcy.  To have you _gone_."  The figure pushed back its hood, and deTorcy gasped.  A part of him whispered that he should have known, should have guessed…  Now, the man had sent his son for him, and it was too late.  Feebly, he waved his sword, and another one of those sneering, lazy, elegant smiles crossed the young man's face—

"_Avada Kedavra!_"

The winds rose and swirled through the room as pale green light bloomed from the tip of the wand, summoned by an unearthly force.  Windows and doors burst into shards; tables and chairs crashed against the walls as pans flew about, beating against the roof.  Shingles blew away and walls crumbled.  Even the rafters ripped themselves off, bashing about with a violence that was terrifying.  Fire in the grate exploded, fed by the magic, and the yellow flames licked at the frame of the beach house, smouldering with angry power.  A shriek sounded through the air; then, there was the loud thud of lifeless bodies hitting cold, hard ground.  The smell of lightning after a storm tinged the air and electricity crackled through the skies.

Blonde hair brushed against the young man's forehead, and his sharp features seemed ethereal as the winds began to die down.  Slowly, he bent down to survey the damage, only to straighten up suddenly.  With one booted foot, he kicked at Charles deTorcy's body sharply, watching as the dead weight rolled aside to reveal a long broadsword.  Deftly, he picked up the blade, studying it in the unnatural reddish-glow of the leaping flames before turning to face his companions.  The hint of violet undercurrents could be seen in the cool grey eyes.

"Well?" one of the figures demanded, face still hidden by the black cowl.

The young man smiled.  "Excellent," he said.

***

Sunlight sifted in lazily through the windows of the Weasley kitchen, giving an added sheen to the worn, round walnut table sitting in the middle of the room.  The turquoise-blue walls, decorated with pictures of the various Weasley members, were bright and cheerful.  It was summer in every sense of the word, and never was that feeling more truly conveyed than by the scent of apples ripening in the orchard… and the presence of dark chocolate cake in the refrigerator.  Peering surreptitiously to the left, then to the right, Ginny Weasley sneaked another forkful of cake into her mouth, giving a breathy sigh of happiness as the rich taste invaded her senses.  Truly, chocolate was bliss…

"Ginny, dear, have you—" The voice paused as it caught sight of Ginny's flaming red locks near the black of the refrigerator.  "Ginny!  How many times have I told you not to eat cake before breakfast?  You'll ruin your appetite!" 

Ginny whirled around, her mouth still full of chocolate cake, only to face the petite figure of her mother.  She swallowed quickly and spread her arms in an expansive gesture.  "Morning, Mum.  What's all this about cake now?  I don't see any cake."  She opened her mouth and pointed at it with her index finger.  "D'you see any cake in here?"  Mrs. Weasley snorted her contempt even as her brown eyes danced with amusement.

"No, but your breath smells like chocolate, dear.  Honestly, you're becoming as bad as the twins.  Why don't you have some real food to eat?  You're getting so thin."  Mrs. Weasley began pulling things out of the refrigerator and placing them on the table.  "I've got sausage, ham, eggs… here, dear, have some toast and butter as well… and oh!  Scones from the other night…" She cast a warming spell over the food as she raided the pantry for other goodies to feed her daughter.  "Bill brought us some dates from his last visit to Egypt, and I see some apricot jam that's still unopened…"

Mrs. Weasley's muttering faded from hearing as she disappeared into the pantry.  Shaking her head, Ginny helped herself to some of the food.  She suspected that even if she were a hundred pounds overweight, Molly Weasley would continue to avow by her daughter's thinness until her face turned blue.  

"Well, well, well, what have we here?"  Ginny looked up at the sound of her father's voice, only to see his tall, lanky figure framed within the kitchen entryway.  "Breakfast all set out, and a lovely daughter to enjoy it with me."  He walked towards her and planted a kiss on her cheek.  "Morning, heart.  Sleep well?"

"Mmfff," Ginny managed to reply from around another mouthful of eggs.  She swallowed hastily.  "Absolutely wonderful.  Daddy, d'you think you could pass me the—"

"I'm telling you, Bill, if we could just convince the government that they need to breed more Norwegian Ridgebacks, we'd have a loaded arsenal!" a voice shouted energetically from the stairs, cutting her off.  "Just think about it—flaming dragons, everywhere!  You-Know-Who wouldn't dare come near the Ministry—"

"Because he wouldn't need to, Charlie—the buildings would all be up in flames—why'd he need to come if the dragons can do it all for him?  No, what the Ministry really needs are proper rules on everything.  If there were more standardized rules, You-Know-Who wouldn't be running all over the place—we'd have him tamed and locked up in Azkaban!  It's absolutely disgraceful, the way nothing gets done around the place, just look at those reports on eye-of-newt… simply ghastly…"

Bill rolled his eyes as Charlie turned to argue with Percy.  "Morning, Gin, Dad.  Anything to eat?"

Arthur Weasley looked up from his newspaper.  "Hmmm?"  He waved his hand vaguely at the table.  "Oh, all that.  Help yourself…" he broke off as the squabbling Percy and Charlie finally made their way to the kitchen table.  Bill promptly sat down to eat, making a valiant attempt to ignore the two.  Of course, it didn't work.

"Really, Charlie, I don't see how you can dismiss the quality of eye-of-newt so easily," Percy complained, pulling out the chair next to Ginny's.  "D'you realize how many things can be screwed up by inferior potion ingredients?  It'd be disastrous!  The apothecary would be selling faulty medicine to clients, clients would become even more ill than before… It'd be a chain reaction!  D'you realize just how many departments would become involved if that took place?  Not to mention the _paperwork_!  And you're sitting here going on about your dragons—"

"Dragons are important in this day and age!" Charlie cried heatedly as he seated himself and started shovelling sausages onto his plate.  "They've got the most remarkable memories, and they know things that we've never even dreamed of in our lives…"

"Like what?" Percy sneered, spooning apricot jam onto his toast.  "What temple virgins used to taste like at the altar?"

"I still haven't gotten my jam yet," Ginny said tartly.  Percy handed it to her absently, then turned back to Charlie, who had been eating his sausages with an injured air.  She rolled her eyes and spooned the jam onto her toast, watching as Charlie huffed indignantly. 

"Dragons do not, for your information, eat temple virgins," he told Percy haughtily.  "They eat Christian virgins."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Percy said with false sincerity.  "Christian virgins, then.  Whatever.  The point is—"

"Boys!  Stop your bickering right this instance!  You're letting all the food get cold," Mrs. Weasley scolded, finally appearing from the pantry.  She flicked her wand, watching as the pots and pans flew about the room.  "Really, you'd think you'd behave better, being grown men… You're becoming as bad as the twins, and God knows what they're cooking up in that horrible joke shop of theirs, Wizard Wheezes or whatever…"

"What's that about Gred, Mum?" George called sleepily from the entryway, knuckling his eyes.  His red hair stuck up everywhere, and his blue-and-white striped pyjamas made him look younger than his twenty-one years of age.  Pulling out a chair, he sat down and began helping himself to some toast and eggs.  "You're not planning on turning him into a bleeding git like Percy, are you?"

"Yeah, Mum, don't turn me into a bleeding git like Percy," Fred added, coming up behind George and sitting down next to him.  "Forge wouldn't like it."

Everyone sniggered into their plates except for Mrs. Weasley and Percy—Mrs. Weasley, because she didn't have a plate and was too busy glaring at the twins; Percy, because he honestly thought he was much better than a git.  Fred and George caught their mother's look and began to shift their weight uneasily.

"We're sorry, Mum, really—"

"Yeah, we are—"

"It's just that—"

"Well—"

"It's not our fault that Percy's such a—"

"_Don't_ say any more," Mrs. Weasley warned them sternly.  "I don't want to hear it."

"It's all right, Mum, I can handle them," Percy told her pompously, wiping his mouth delicately.  He placed his fork and knife down on the plate with deliberate precision so that the utensils formed a perfect cross, and Ginny fought the urge to roll her eyes.  "At any rate, I'd best be off, Mum.  Business at the Ministry, don't you know—something to do with regulation colour for eye-of-newt.  It's due January, and I just can't let some other bloke do the job.  You know how all those officials are—inefficient."

"But… but… Percy, dear, you barely ate anything!  At least have some more eggs," Mrs. Weasley protested, shoving the platter of scrambled eggs in the general direction of his chair.

"I'll eat later, Mum, I promise," he told her, straightening his tie.  George and Fred sniggered into their plates again as they caught sight of the gesture; Percy's red tie always looked the same no matter how much he fiddled with the thing.  "I'll talk to you later," Percy declared loftily, pointedly ignoring the twins.  Bending down to pick up his briefcase, he waved a quick goodbye before Apparating out of the room with a loud *pop*.  Mrs. Weasley heaved a disappointed sigh.

"He never stays around here for long, and he's getting so thin…  I knew it was a mistake to let him live by himself, Arthur.  I doubt if he eats three meals a day.  Whatever made you think it was a good idea?" she demanded, turning on her husband.

"Mmmm," Mr. Weasley replied, deeply absorbed in the newspaper before him.  "Holyhead Harpies beat England 220 to 70," he muttered after a moment.

"Arthur, didn't you hear anything I told you?"  Mrs. Weasley shouted at him angrily, waving her stirring spoon in a threatening manner.  "I'm talking about Percy, and you're sitting here gloating over your stupid little—"

"Come look at this!  Ron's in the newspaper!" Mr. Weasley yelled excitedly (it was his first emotional show of the day), standing up.  The chair, unbalanced by the suddenness of his movement, reeled drunkenly before careening over.  Forgetting her ire at her husband, Mrs. Weasley crowded around with the rest of her children to look at the picture.  Sure enough, there was Ron with his bold red hair and angular features, hands tucked into the pockets of charcoal trousers as he stared off at what looked to be the charred remains of a beach house.  Excitement died to be replaced by worry, however, as they took note of a particular detail.

A green skull hung over the house, and the head of a snake slithered out of its gaping mouth as the empty eyes glowed.

***

Dumbledore put down his copy of _The Daily Prophet_ with a sigh, his normally twinkling blue eyes sorrowful as he looked down at the picture Ron and the burned-down beach house.  "So, it's begun, then," he said quietly.  "After eighteen years of patient waiting, Voldemort has finally risen to claim the Wizarding World."  He looked over his half-moon spectacles at his colleagues, who were seated around the long dais that had been in Hogwarts since the beginning of its founding.  There was a stunned air about them, as if they could not quite believe what they were hearing.  Only two sat quietly—Severus Snape, with his usual expression of disdain; and Rudolf Habsburg, the Dark Arts Professor, with an expression of quiet concern. 

"Surely…" Professor McGonagall began dazedly, her Scottish accent becoming more pronounced in her agitation, "surely you do not think he could win this time, Albus?"  The pointy hat she wore seemed to bob up and down in the sea of sunlight, its own equilibrium undisturbed by its owner's emotionally turbulent state. 

"Of course he could win!" Severus Snape sneered, his black eyes glittering maliciously in his pale, sallow face.  "Death Eaters from around the world are flocking to his side.  Both the Lestranges have been reported missing from their cells, and Lucius Malfoy has once again been summoned to his master's side.  The dementors have abandoned their posts; dark creatures from the Forbidden Forest stir and waken for the first time in years.  Muggle attacks have risen tenfold—"

"Severus—" Dumbledore said warningly.

The potions master brushed him off, however, enjoying his current state of power.  He banged both hands down on the table with sudden force, causing them all to jump.  "I don't think you understand the direness of the situation," he told them, the malicious smile still lingering.  "This is nothing like what you've ever seen before.  What he did eighteen years ago is nothing compared to what he's getting ready to do now.  Already he has sent out his call, summoning his servants to his side, and their powers are great.  Ogres, Giants, Nagas, Vampires, Banshees, Trolls, Skulks, Wraiths, Ghouls, Minotaurs, Harpies, Dragons… all are coming, and more.  I can go on for hours and still not manage to cover the breadth of his army.  He has come back, and this time, he is prepared.  He will drink your blood, carve chess pieces out of your bones, feed his veela children your flesh, and there will be no mercy."  

"But… but we 'ave 'Arry," Hagrid protested, his ham-fingers nervously fingering the lapel of his hairy brown pockets.

"Harry Potter?" Snape spat, turning on the Gamekeeper savagely.  All semblance of cool disdain vanished with the mention of Harry's name, and Snape's eyes flashed.  "You lumbering oaf, he will fall, as we all will!  The blood that runs through the Potter boy's veins is no more special than mine, or even yours.  He may have defeated the killing curse of the Dark Lord once, but that does not mean he will do so again.  This time, the Dark Lord has a special weapon that he did not have last time, and you can be sure he will use it without hesitation.  No, there is no Potter to save you all this time."  His lip curled with distaste as he took his seat once more, his eyes both triumphant and desperate as they peered from behind the curtain of greasy black hair.

"Severus is right," Dumbledore said heavily, reluctantly.  "We cannot count on Harry Potter to save us, for he will die, as we all must.  Only the love Lily Potter bore her son saved him, and that protection was removed during Harry's fourth year."  He held up his hand to stall the murmuring that broke out at the dais.  "I did not say that Harry is not special," Dumbledore continued loudly.  "Harry Potter is more special than any of us can imagine—surely his actions have proven that fact.  He is an extraordinary child.  Few can face the Dark Lord and come out alive.  But until the protection of his mother is replaced with something else, the Dark Lord will kill him, as he would kill any of us, and all our hopes will be gone."

"So then… vhat do ve do?"  The heavy German tones of Dark Arts Professor sounded low in the ears of every person seated at the dais, and they stared at him with dismay mingled with mistrust.  It was not a combination that they could be blamed for—after all, no mortal's hair could ever be that black and lustrous; no mortal's eyes could ever be that brilliant and vivid a green; no mortal's teeth could ever be that white and sharp…  And certainly a man of forty years should not look as if he were no more than twenty, not if he were mortal.  Yet, an immortal had not been seen or reported for the last seven hundred years…  They looked away from the Dark Arts Professor and waited for Dumbledore to speak.  

Dumbledore studied his friend closely, a sad, faint smile on his lips._  Ah, yes, Rudolf.  What do we do against this, this… Nosferatu?  More importantly, what will _you_ do?  Even now, your blood burns in your veins as you struggle to resist the call of the Dark Lord…_

He stared at Dumbledore, his eyes unblinking, and Dumbledore cleared his throat.  "Ahem.  Yes.  Well, what can we do?  We can't do anything, except perhaps wait for Harry to come into the protective armour he'll need—"

"Vat of the Fräulein?" Rudolf demanded, leaning forward in his chair, his chin resting in his cupped hand.  The green eyes gleamed with interest, adding a razor-sharp edge to his already youthful handsomeness.  "Is she not a possibility?"

"Yes, she is a possibility," Dumbledore acknowledged slowly.  "A very good possibility, actually.  I had planned on waiting until later… but perhaps, under the circumstances… Yes, I suppose it's better that she enter the picture now rather than later…"

Professor McGonagall drew in breath sharply, her hazel eyes wide behind the square-rimmed spectacles.  "But Albus!" she protested.  "She's only just out of school!  Think of how her parents would feel!  And her siblings!  Is this really wise?"

"She was first in her class, Minerva," Dumbledore told her quietly, his blue eyes piercing as he stared at the grey-haired witch.  "And her aptitude for the Dark Arts is amazing.  In fact, in all my years here at Hogwarts, I've only met three other students with such an affinity for the Dark Arts."  He paused.  "Tom Riddle, Harry Potter… and Draco Malfoy."

There was silence at the dais.

"Yes, I repeat, the only three people in the world who could match her are the Dark Lord, Harry Potter, and Draco Malfoy.  As of right now, Harry Potter is gaining valuable experience as a Platinum Auror in the Field Division.  His Auror training will augment whatever training the Dark Lord put him through during his time here in Hogwarts, and when it is time for Harry to face Voldemort, he will not be unprepared.  The rest of us know what Voldemort is doing—he is readying his forces for a war that he might very well win if we are not careful.  And, as for Draco Malfoy…"

"Ah, yes, Draco Malfoy," Sibyl Trelawny said suddenly, surprising everyone with her high-pitched, floaty voice.  Age had made her even more unbearable than before, and her declining years consisted mostly of reading crystal balls, playing with tarot cards, and conjuring new purple and gold scarves at regular intervals.  Rarely did she give indication of understanding the events that took place around her.  "He is a very interesting character, isn't he?  So very much like his father…"

And with that, Trelawny turned back to her crystal ball and stuck her dark brown eye to the surface, as if the physical proximity of eye and crystal could bring about some vision of the future.  She rocked back and forth, humming to herself, and after waiting a few more minutes to see if she would say something else of value, everyone turned back to the conversation.

"Yes, he is much like his father," Dumbledore agreed, picking up the thread of discussion as he suppressed a sigh of disappointment.  He had been sure that Sibyl would make another one of her rare predictions, but old age and the stress of being a diviner had plunged her back into the lonely realm of the somewhat crazy.  "However, Draco Malfoy is of little concern to us right now.  He is with a division of Aurors posted at Dunkirk, and they are keeping a close eye on him.  Therefore, there is only one person we need have concern for, and that is the girl.  Yes, the more that I think about it, the more I like the idea.  She must have training—we cannot wait any longer.  Voldemort is looking for her as well as Harry, and when she faces him, she must be prepared."

Professor Snape raised both black eyebrows, surprised.  "You think the Dark Lord would remember a barely grown woman—that too, a woman with nothing to recommend her?" he asked, incredulous.

Dumbledore turned to face him, his features a mask of graveness and steely determination.  "There is much to recommend her, Severus," he told the potions master grimly.  "She is a very gifted and talented young woman, even if she doesn't realize it.  In fact, it may be _because_ she does not realize it that she is so gifted.  And I do not merely _think_ so, Severus."  His blue eyes were deadly serious over the crooked nose, and his mouth was a thin line in the tired face.  "I know so."

***

The silence in the room was deafening.

"Arthur?" Mrs. Weasley asked finally, wiping her hands nervously with the dishtowel.  "Well, go on, then.  What does it say?  Is he all right?  What's he doing there, for God's sake?"

Mr. Weasley cleared his throat.  "It says… it says that a beach house in a popular Muggle settlement called Dunkirk burned down last night.  Ministry is busy investigating the place—of course, the Muggles don't suspect a thing.  _They_ can't see the Dark Mark—the Aurors covered it up.  Now they're trying to figure out where the Death Eaters will strike next.  Lots of the usual blather in here too, about how there's no cause for alarm, and how everything's under control...  Keeps talking about the fact that the Dark Lord hasn't shown up in almost eight years now, as if that makes some kind of difference."  He put the newspaper down and kneaded the bridge of his nose tiredly.  "It also says that Ron's been promoted to a Platinum in the Field Division.  He'll be leading his own contingent of Aurors into the foray next time."

_"Platinum?"_ Mrs. Weasley shrieked, horrified.  "They've promoted him to a _Platinum?_  What were they _thinking_?  This is… Oh, sweet Merlin, he's a prime target!  What was running through that thick skull of his when he accepted that awful promotion?  As if I don't worry about him enough, and now he's in as much danger as Harry…  Oh, God…"

Charlie and Bill stared down at the newspaper Arthur Weasley had laid out on the worn walnut surface.  The picture of the charred house and Ron's still figure continued to burn in their minds, calling out to their sense of righteousness.  "I'm sorry, Mum, Dad," Bill said finally, one long finger tracing the outline of Ron's face thoughtfully, "but we've…"

"Yeah," Charlie said, picking up the thread, no longer able to control the urge.  "We've got to go as well.  _The Daily Prophet_ may have just reported that one house, but I'll bet the Death Eater attack was much bolder than that.  The Ministry just doesn't want to cause an uproar over what could be nothing—I mean, this is only the second raid in eight years—but then again, it could be that the authorities just don't see the danger yet.  They'll be needing us, Mum, whether they realize it or not, and even if they don't right now, they'll want us later.  They'll want me back to start negotiations with the dragons—"

"And I've got to go to Gringotts." Bill cut in, the fang in his ear glinting in the light.  He adjusted his dragon hide leather jacket, and at that moment, Ginny could see why they called her brother _Curse bane_.  It was a side of him that was as terrifying as it was reassuring, a side she had never been able to imagine, no matter how hard she had tried.  "They're going to want me there—tons of cursed objects in those vaults, you've no idea…  and I've got to undo those protective charms round Vaults 613, 4982, and 86…"

"It's really begun then, hasn't it?" Mrs. Weasley murmured faintly.  "I never thought I'd see this happening again…  I just thought they might be random raids, caused by some dark wizard gone nostalgic or something…  Well then, I guess you'd better leave.  Take some of those sausages with you Bill, Charlie—I don't want you both fainting on your way there.  And if you don't mind, drop by Percy's office on the way and tell him if he sees Ron he's to send him home immediately."  Her manner became brisk as she thrust a sausage into each of their hands.  "Well then?" she demanded when she saw they weren't moving.  "What're you waiting for?  Go on with you!"

Both Bill and Charlie waved before Disapparating with a loud *pop*; then, there were only the five of them huddled around the walnut table.  With a sigh, Mrs. Weasley tied her apron on more tightly and began waving dishes into the sink.  Mutterings of "killed" and "idiots" and "wasn't one of my boys enough" and "never thought I'd see this day…" floated from her position near the sink as she scrubbed the dishes.  There was an awkward pause; then, the sound of beating wings disturbed the silence.

"It's Darjeeling," Mrs. Weasley said without looking up from the dish she was scrubbing particularly hard.  (Fred and George looked at each other, but said nothing.  It was a mark of Mrs. Weasley's agitation that she was washing dishes manually rather than 'magicking' them clean.)  "Arthur, be a dear and open the window for her—she won't be able to get in otherwise, and for all we know, it could be a message from Ron."

"Oh, of course, dear."  Mr. Weasley pushed the window open, watching as the snowy owl swooped in and settled down next to Ginny.  A birthday gift from Ron to his only sister, Darjeeling was a beautiful snowy owl of gleaming white feathers and tawny eyes.  Unfortunately (and Ginny didn't know whether to be amused or exasperated by this), the damn bird seemed to know just how magnificent she was.  This was made amply evident as Darjeeling imperiously stretched out her leg, waiting with a sort of lofty patience for Ginny to untie the green ribbon of the scroll.  The girl was about to open the parchment and read the contents when Fred's long-fingered hands snatched the paper away from her.

"What d'you think this is, George?" Fred asked his brother casually, a mischievous glint in his blue eyes as he fingered the scroll.  "Can't be a letter from our Ronniekinns—he wouldn't be so mean as to write to just our Gins here.  Perhaps it's another love letter from the famous and incredibly sought-after Harry Potter?"

George grinned.  "Nah… ribbon's green.  Maybe a declaration of undying love from the stalwart Irishman, Seamus Finnegan?"

"Could be the dashing Dean Thomas," Fred opined.  "He's been crazy about green since his baby sis got into Slytherin—seems to think he needs to be on Snape's good side if his sister's going to survive in that hell hole.  Say, we need to have a talk with the chap, still hasn't returned our gloves from the last game—"

 "Fred, George!  Give that here!" Ginny yelled furiously as she tried to snatch the parchment from Fred's hands.  After all, just because the letter wasn't a love letter from one of the before-mentioned boys didn't mean she wanted her brothers reading _her_ missives.  Her attempt at getting the letter back, however, was futile, considering the fact that she was only a petite five feet while her brother was a tall six foot one.  _And the twins are the shortest of them all!_ she thought desperately, making another attempt to grab her letter.

"Oooh, betcha it's from some secret lover we don't know about yet," Fred teased with a grin, ignoring his sister's efforts as he easily lifted his hand out of reach.  George laughed as he hugged his sister tightly, pinning her arms to her sides.  She squirmed in his grasp, trying to break his hold, but he tucked her under his chin and held on tight.  Fred winked at his brother, and George flashed him another one of the famous Weasley grins.  "Yet, of course," Fred added, "being the key word here…"

"Fred Weasley, you give your sister back her letter right this minute!" Mrs. Weasley scolded as she turned away from the casserole dish.  Soapsuds stuck to her hands as she brandished her sponge at the pair.  "It's not nice to tease her that way."  

Fred pouted.  "I'm not teasing Gins here—I'm just looking out for her best interests.  And right now," he added with a broad grin, "it's in her best interests if I know who her latest lover is."  He unrolled the parchment (much to Ginny's distress) and pretended to read it.  "Dear Ginny," Fred began solemnly, winking at George.  George snickered, and Ginny squirmed, causing George to tighten his embrace.  After a few moments of continued struggle, she gave up.  The twins were bent on doing their dirty deed for the day, and she happened to be their prime target.  She might as well sit back and enjoy George's hug, seeing as she was entitled to a brotherly hug every once in a while.    

"I am writing to declare my undying love for you," Fred continued, pressing a hand to his heart as he tried to mimic lovesick adoration.  "I can't keep it to myself anymore.  When I see you, I'm reminded of a banshee.  Your eyes are like beetles, and your lips are like blood.  When I hear your voice, I want to stuff lots and lots of cotton in my ears because its so screechy.  Won't you please shake my hand?  Thank you very much.  Sincerely, Peeves the Poltergeist."  There was a pause and then—

Hysterical laughter.

"That was—" Fred began, tears of laughter welling up in his blue eyes.

"Hilarious!" George finished, gasping for air and releasing Ginny in the process.

"Never thought—"

"Of all things—"

"Peeves!"  There was another fit of hysterical laughter as Molly Weasley moved forward to berate her two boys.  Ginny, meanwhile, glared daggers at the twins before snatching up the letter from Fred's limp grasp.  Really, the whole thing hadn't been that funny—it was one of the worst jokes she'd ever seen Fred cook up, and that was saying something…  She cocked her head slightly and shifted her whole attention to the elegant script spiralling across the yellowed paper.  

_Dear Ms. Virginia Weasley, _the letter began, _we are pleased to inform you that your request for sanctuary within these hallowed walls has been granted_…  She frowned slightly at the words.  That couldn't possibly be right—she hadn't done any requesting for sanctuary anywhere.  George and Fred must have upset her more than she had thought.  Again, she read the letter, and then again.  After the third reading, she looked up from the paper, a frown playing on her lips.  Well, there was no way in heaven she could have misread the missive _three_ times.  Something was up…

"Fred, George, did you read the letter?  I mean, _really_ read it?" she asked, rubbing the parchment between her thumb and forefinger absently.

By now, Mrs. Weasley had gone back to her dishes, and the twins' raucous laughter had died down.  They both looked up at their sister curiously.  "No," George said slowly.  "I mean, I know we're a load of gits sometimes, Gins," he added, using the twins' favourite nickname for her, "but honestly, we're not _that_ horrid.  Why?"

She waved them towards her, and both Fred and George crowded around to look over her shoulder and read the contents.  What they saw made their eyes go round with surprise even as they were struck dumb.  "Oh," Fred said finally, still sounding somewhat shell-shocked when he finally managed to open his mouth.  "That's why."

***

Even with the cloaking charm over it, Harry Potter could still see the hideous shape of the Dark Mark looming over him like an overgrown bat.  Each detail was finely etched before him in green light: the empty eye sockets, the sharp curve of crown giving way to cheekbone, the deep sinuousness of that god-awful snake slithering out of that gaping mouth…  He shuddered and started to turn away from the ruined remains of the beach house.  The sharp metallic taste of dark magic lingered in his mouth and nose, making him feel somewhat nauseous, and he wasn't eager to continue feeling the effects.

"Ghastly thing, isn't it?" a voice stated from beside him in a cool, collected drawl.

Harry whirled to his left, only to see the tall, blonde figure of Draco Malfoy.  The other boy's head was tilted back to look up at the skies above, and the sparse lines of his body spoke of aristocratic arrogance.  There was no disgust or nausea evident in his demeanour—there was only the set of his shoulders, the tilt of his chin, the cool glint in those sharp grey eyes.  With a smirk, Draco pushed back his silvery-blonde hair from his forehead and stepped sideways so that he could get a better view of the gaping green skull.  "Of course," he continued, still drawling, "you do have to admit that it does have a sort of grisly appeal, what with the snake and all.  Wouldn't you say so, Potter?"

"Sure I would," Harry replied, "if I were a big, inbred git like you."  He paused, his breathing somewhat shallow.  The metallic taste he had experienced earlier had not faded away with time, and he was barely holding onto his breakfast as it was without Draco Malfoy bothering him.  "Look, don't you have places to go, things to see?  A few Death Eater meetings to attend where you can be a prat?  I hear they fry babies on Thursdays—today might be your lucky day.  Why don't you go and find out?"

"I believe today's the day they go out and have frantic orgies in the name of Beelzebub, Potter," he drawled lazily in that slow, cultured drawl of his.  Cool grey eyes, half-lidded and languorous, sparkled with malice.  "Frying babies takes place on Mondays.  If you're going to go picking on Death Eater meetings, at least get the schedule straight."

"I suppose you would know, wouldn't you?" Harry spat, his green eyes shining with dislike.  "Seeing as your father's so immersed in the whole bloody business."

Draco shrugged his shoulders: an elegant, polished movement that spoke of sophistication and breeding.  "I could do much worse than follow in my father's footsteps, Potter.  You would do well to remember that."  He held out his hand, and a scroll of parchment suddenly appeared in the palm of his hand.  "Fascinating as this conversation is, I didn't come here to discuss my father with you.  If I'd wanted to do that, I would have joined the Death Eaters Convention or stayed home with Mother."  With a smirk, Draco bowed mockingly and proffered the scroll to the bewildered Harry.  "I believe you'll find it... _most_ enlightening."

Warily, Harry accepted the parchment.  Eight years with Draco Malfoy had taught him caution, mistrust, and suspicion, if nothing else, and he had learned those lessons well.  His fingers had barely touched the paper, however, when it slowly rose into the air and moved to float at eye level.  With a soft _swoosh_, it unrolled with a flourish, revealing a blank page.  It looked untouched, as if only time, light, and the physical world had affected it.  "Malfoy," Harry began, "what in bloody—"

_Urgent request.  Report back to headquarters at once with Draco Malfoy._  The words flashed across the page, dark blue against crackling yellow-brown, before disappearing once more into oblivion.  Slowly, Harry transferred his green gaze from the parchment to Draco.  The other boy stood there, arms crossed over his chest, strangely silent.  "All right," Harry said finally, after a long moment.  "All right.  We'll head on back to headquarters, then, and I'll—"

He broke off, startled, when the hovering parchment suddenly dropped to the white sands with a _thud_ and spontaneously burst into flames.  Draco smirked broadly, his grey eyes glinting with unhidden satisfaction at the sight of Harry caught unawares.  "What's the matter, Potter?" he drawled contentedly.  "Bit jumpy today, aren't we?"

"Nothing that can't be fixed, _Malfoy_," Harry said sharply.  Draco shrugged indifferently before tackling his shirt.  He had worn a long-sleeved white dress shirt, and the hot summer sun was beginning to get to him.  Two long fingers unmoored the holes from the silver burn of the cufflinks; then, with one flip, and then another, he had rolled up his sleeves and was facing Harry once more.  Grey eyes bored into green ones, both pairs brimming with unhidden dislike; then, Harry turned away and began to walk towards the shoreline.  "I'll tell Ron that we're leaving," Harry continued, barely noticing that Draco had easily caught up with him.

"Good idea," Draco opined.  "Weasel's so pathetic, he can't even find his own head if asked; we don't want him combing the beaches looking for us.  Although, come to think of it, it's a very intriguing idea…"

"Oy, Harry!" a voice shouted from a few metres away.  Both looked further down the shoreline, only to see the tall, angular, redheaded figure of Ron Weasley ahead of them.  He waved once, beckoning the pair towards him, and Harry broke out into a slight jog.  Draco, however, refused to lose his dignity for a mere Weasley and stood where he was.  This suited both Ron and Harry to perfection, and they greeted each other with a broad grin before the circumstances of their situation kicked in.  Ron's grin faded.  "I've got the samples of the sand ready for analysing," he began, his blue eyes serious, "but I still need samples of the roof.  I heard it was blown to smithereens."

"It was," Harry confirmed.  "Not a single shingle in sight.  Whatever they used, it was one damn powerful spell.  Don't know how they did it, though, and I'm not even sure of the _type_ of spell they used.  For that matter, neither is Malfoy, and his experience in the Dark Arts is much greater than mine.  He says it could be anything from the simple jigsaw spell to another one of the Unforgivables."

Ron cast another look at Draco, frowning darkly.  "It probably was another Unforgivable, Harry," he said sombrely as he began looking through papers.  "In addition to a summoning of the Flames of Hell.  The deTorcys owned this particular house.  You remember them—_he_ used to work for the Muggle British Ministry in London.  Terrible git, he was.  At any rate, no one's been able to reach them, and they aren't sure yet if deTorcy and his wife are simply out of town for a few days or if they died here."  He gestured one freckled hand towards the remains of the house, and Harry could not help but look.  It looked the same as before, the green figure of the Dark Mark glowing above piles of ash.  "For all we know, their bodies could be in those piles of ash there.  Be dashed convenient for the Death Eaters if that were the case—everyone for kilometres around knows no one in the Ministry of Magic proper could stand deTorcy.  Unfortunately, it'll be a while before we know the truth."

Harry sighed.  "Yes, well, I suppose I'll have to come back later and find out.  Malfoy and I've been called back to headquarters.  They said it was urgent.  Merlin knows what they want."

"Mmmm.  Yes, well then, I guess you'd better head on up, then.  I'll let you know what we find here," Ron said, turning back to his papers.  "Keep an eye on Malfoy, though.  He might say he's a double agent, but for all we know, he may really be on the side of You-Know-Who.  I'd be careful if I were you."

"I'll be careful," Harry promised.  Then, giving Ron one final clap on the back, he made his way back to Draco.  The tall, straight line of the other boy stood out starkly against the blue skies, a pale figure limned in silver and gold that reminded Harry of a fallen angel.  Harry snorted at the thought.  _Fallen_ was the key word when it came to Draco Malfoy.

"Well?" Draco demanded when Harry had come within questioning distance.  "Did you tell him?  Can we leave yet?"

"I told him."  His dark head was bent as he went rummaging through his pockets for something.  "Oh, here it is," Draco heard him mutter, and then, Harry was lifting his head, a triumphant gleam in his eyes as he pulled something silver out of his pocket.  It looked to be a charm of some sort—a serpent, perhaps—but it was hard for Draco to tell.  "I'd hold on tight if I were you, Malfoy," Harry added, thrusting the silver something into Draco's hand.    You might find yourself dropping into unpleasant places otherwise."

"What?" Draco began, but then he felt a sharp tug at his navel even as Harry's hand latched on to his shirtsleeve.  The ocean and the beach house whirled away into a riot of colour.  Colour gave way to a blur of white and grey that swirled around him in a dizzying column, and for a moment, Draco wondered if he had not accidentally been caught up in the middle of a tornado.  But then, solid ground made itself known to his feet, and the blur of no-colour parted to reveal the tapestried walls of an old medieval castle.

Draco immediately snatched the silver charm from Harry's surprised hand and studied it closely.  It was indeed a serpent—a cobra, to be precise—with emerald eyes and a satiny finish.  Taking one final glance, he shoved it back into Harry's hands.  "Damn you, Potter," Draco seethed, "couldn't you tell me we were going to travel by bloody Portkey?"

"How else would we get here?" Harry asked sensibly, tucking away the charm.  The barest hint of a smirk was playing on his lips.

Draco scowled irritably and crossed his arms over his chest.  "You fucking sod…" 

"I sincerely hope you don't kiss your mother vith that same mouth, Draco," a voice said from behind, cutting Draco off before he could become even more explicit.  The heavy German tones sounded through the cavernous halls, but even they could not hide the amusement felt.  "Narcissa vould be shocked to hair such crude language coming out of her son's mouth."

Startled, both Harry and Draco looked up, and what they saw made their eyes widen in surprise.  Standing before them in robes of dark green was the tall figure of Rudolf Habsburg… and in his left hand was the Goblet of Fire.

**Author's Note:** So, what did you guys think?  This is the first time I've ever posted one of my fics, so any comments you have will be greatly appreciated.  =)


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